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A folder in which to store some old poems written before 2003 |
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** Image ID #410147 Unavailable ** Inside this book are the poems or rather relics exhibiting earlier or discarded work. Most of these pieces had their own items at one time, but now, I decided to fold them into a book for housekeeping purposes. |
| Written in 1989 for my best friend who died of lung cancer before her wedding You lived in a hurry... cigarettes and smoke, your laughter, my rainy grin, living for the moment, ashes to the wind. Loving without torment, you missed the dance, roses by the gate, white picket fence. Why was it too late? When I told you this, my muted droning got lost in the smoke. Hiding your mischief in my bitterness, I had to retreat. At the end, although speechless, the completion of the ritual, without regret or joy. To your fibers, and to my heart, you set a fire inextinguishable. |
| Voices suggest a collapsing of sorts or some lack of light for him; quizzical, he swings the door open. Why did someone mumble frightening things, something about surrender and God’s will? He wonders with disbelief at sunshine’s glare, playing with the curtains, in dismantled reflection, a shock wearing away, crisscrossing the pain, as if his thorax were removed. High in his chest a frigid scream clots with the emptiness underneath the baby blanket he’s staring at. |
| For an aunt with Alzheimer’s The holiday for peace, love, and joy, flourishing in uncertainty, as Aunt Janice sits rocking, incomprehensive of cousin Henry’s relief of her survival, after walking into the waves one late November night. No more does she take notice of complicated things, the oldies, even Chad and Jeremy’s crooning, “They say that all good things must end some day Autumn leaves must fall But don't you know that it hurts me so To say goodbye to you...” Her grasp misses quaint customs, ours, as well as hers, such as offering eggnog to strangers, singing carols at midnight, and on Christmas morning, walking along the docks, the marina, and old houses with dormers while a hazy sunshine glistens the faces of rocks. Nothing is sure now; in this seaside town, only the honor exists of subliminal whispers and long-ago feelings. The age of ice has solidified the mind, erasing information, with veils of snow covering her foundation and memory. But, what if clouds hide the sky and permanence is impossible to guarantee? All Aunt Janice asks for is a candy bar and a glimpse of the ocean from her window. That simple! |
| To a friend diagnosed with leukemia You laugh struck with awe at the din of the ultimatum, divested of patience. What if the vital current withdraws... The blunder of blood, unless gratified by chemo, as thoughts thunder through, rattling the mind, measuring the mettle and the sap of lineage. While fighting the pull, your feats do not soothe your senses, and temper your spirit. Flickering out, you tell me, “Being useful is only a consolation, We all just live and die.” Here, I lost you when doubt detonated, and I choked on the passion of your words; could this misconception be your solace in disguise? |
| She got a big lift from outdoors, whacking the silk off dandelions, beating out the tips in play, wishing for tall gladioli instead. A passionate turning point for her day, tempered with fragrances divine, lavender and honeysuckle spiraling a fervent vine. Need not blush the sun, pouring its hoarded gold, a mountain slicing the sunset out of jealousy . . . What dynamic vision! Priceless stuff. She was afraid this beauty would be scraped off soon, since in her little life, when she was five, her mother had said she had been a mistake. She got scared of being erased. Whispered secrets, fatigued with the same refrain, fragile feelings in an unfolding age, a river flowing dark like a sliver of chocolate, sweetness melting inside the sounds of weeping at bedtime. Dandelion seeds, fleeting at dusk, with vast possibilities, chaste at birth, ephemeral, mortal, no mistake, as people come and go. |
| Through his brush, tearing the darkness of an empty canvas, as if escaping out of the moon, shimmering lines cruise into poetry. A search beyond form, chorus line for colors on a trowel, cement, and glue pouring their way into the surprising revelation of collage, under the alizarin rays of an inverted sunset to define intersecting planes with persistent intensity. How wonderful for the eyes! The painter’s knife has vision to transform life without stabbing anyone. |
An atoll of dream magic snorkeling through the lagoon a hint of paradise, at last! Why have they been so tragic, our mistakes of the past? A volcanic creation, draped in its own explanation, from the depths of time, a crater has ebbed down and later this grandeur was born. Staghorn with table coral, terraces of divine splendor damselfish with angelfish woven together, delicate and tender. Blue planet, water planet, where the unknown meets the known, whirling swirling the reefs so colorful grown! Where the currents meet and prance, the rays of diversity glow, webs of life tangle and dance inside an immense ocean show. Man possessed it through the ages, war and greed came in stages. Loud and cruel, the thunder of man darkened and obscured Heaven’s plan. This is not a passing notion, coral reefs aid health of the ocean, now is the time for conservation I plead with true emotion. Warming waters pale the faces of the corals in all places. On each dive my soul hears them cry as ecosystems wither and die. With each misstep we pay a price, if we tread harshly upon our paradise. |
| Rain swirls in a sphere of its own, forming into rivulets on the window pane with the sound of the heels of a flamenco dancer, flooding the sill and rushing into the street to do a fandango in a pothole, so to fill it up as if a tormented mirror reflecting the gray clouds and stone buildings like sunken laments. Rain is the blood of spring with a fragrance of rebirth, lifting up shivering moods, weaving around stones to sing a wake-up song to a seed buried inside the soft soil. Rain is as ancient as legends, with wisdoms of old, democratic too, for it falls with equal intensity on slums, suburbs, and on any two sides at war. Rain has a crystal soul dripping from the gracious sky to give the first leaves an emerald’s shine, for it is a glaze with inner light and tenderness of tears washing the heart, yet, it dries away too quickly, akin to a spontaneous portion of myself, which splashes with delight inside undulating puddles but likes to get lost, suddenly, without an explanation. |
| among the rosy orbs playing with tinsel and light bliss on chipped wings crystal angel’s boundless devotion hangs luminous from a gold cord on the pine branch to warm my heart ---------------- The lack of punctuation is intentional. |
| If it be the grave, lost shoes, or claustrophobia, I’ll permeate the rock and enter this cave, feeling through the dark, scaling the stones, to submerge within, to get to the core of the hollow depression, with a hopscotch skip, just to circle in joy, stomping on a pool tainted with carbonic acid. Through my private grotto, its tiny holes, depositories, human remains, absurdities without plots or structures, I’ll maneuver and squeeze to unseal the crags, to witness the glowing calcite under the seeping light. On this intrepid quest, though knees may ache or skin be bruised, I’ll accept my thorny defeats, for without this trek, without this cave, could anything materialize? |
| In front of Riverside Church on Riverside drive, you glanced in my direction, your eyelashes piercing through the frigid wind, your lips curling in crisis, two rattlesnakes ready to strike; I felt icicles in my bones, since it was mid-January, retrospective, in white. Your rage is poetry, a kind of lust, or sadness, maybe, but I’m not troubled; there’s solace in scars, for you've got no one left to dishearten now. What was there is a clichéd blur, a memory alien; since the scenery’s changed, I’m no longer the same, no more stuck in Woodstock, vulnerable with faded pride, no more sagging deep with visible pain. After all, I had to learn a trick or two to survive and I ride the changes now; although, no place feels far enough away from you. |
| commentary in verse on 8/14/2003 Blackout and similar events From Frankenstein factory, frightful, the blackout, a hex carved out of carelessness, a fleeting gust over unsheltered people who crowded the streets, haunting the dawn, with flesh defiled by lack of energy, faces wrapped in slimy shock. Once more we stood aside to let the light slip away; so now, in a dance of fury, we gnash our teeth, and growl, searching for the culprit, like a beast running around in circles inside its cage. While feigned sobriety rages on, sharpening its blades, we cover our wounds with bandaids and point fingers, as dead weights of refusal to see our dark side pin us down, we heave --spread-eagled-- under private politics, and look away from unattended paths of premonitions. If we only knew how to protect our dreams! |
| When the moon’s soft, deceptive filter strains the mystic night, to delude hidden dreams, solitude is just a typical epic I concoct from faint hues of an elapsed youth, replete with stings of mischief and incisions in the heart, so I can find my slow way home to be at sea with myself. |
| On my forehead, the gathered dust of the years, my face a furnace, with shame's another outburst. I’m late for one more appointment, for not finding my keys, buried somewhere in the wilderness of my home. Until I hear the click of my key-chain’s steel, my nerves won’t stop thumping their feet. My camouflage shirt, loose over the hips, envelopes the bumps of the body, but does not cover up for the mind and the names that play peek-a-boo with my awareness. I’m the feast of the memory monster, salivating at its prey, a demon with greedy eyes, waits there to savor the last morsels of a failing brain, until the time machine plays its final trick. |
| Drought’s stiffness unravels, and at first, just a touch of a sprinkle. Rain offers tiny pearls in friendship rings, with a pledge of adornment in bright green to grassy blades and sparse vegetation peeking through the dry earth’s crust and yearning to be on stage. Flying high with sighs and regret, wishing for slighted thoughts to heal, clouds constrict in good faith, through repetitions of thunderous sobs, and a show of apology begins with several intermissions given for umbrellas. Twisted winds urge the treetops to practice their knack in whispering rumors of seedlings' unexplored talent of hiding, in anonymity, inside puddles. In droplets’ voices, undertones hum, promising an eternal spring, so the curtain comes down, hurt turns to joy, and scars are erased, since, in spasms of love, all lies can be accepted. |
| Unsure of my purpose, I listen to sky and sea, speaking in unison, in simple faith. “Change your mind; slide that magnetic strip rich with love, so life may open. Don’t be scared to fall. Through the rain of tears, a heart can unbolt the celestial vault, to stir a moist melody, glistening in radiance. All feasts are for fools who can die and live, bamboozled, many times over, in only one life. Leave the slush of sorrow that distorts the thoughts; with a bit of starlight, plan a voyage to yourself on destiny’s cue. Thus, through a stellar theme, though so far away, the moon can leave its footprints in your mornings, as Heaven heaves with bliss.” |
| Tipsy as a champagne bubble, Evading a mirrored double, And metallic music, her shape soars; She's my gift, but her talent scores. The actress I wonder about, A genius without a doubt, Twirling on toes painted white, Her hidden light within my sight. The salmon-colored mesh tutu Hints at a perfect billet-doux And a love lost through the years, As she pirouettes to my tears. Her tiny form's in ceramic, Knows no fear, hate, or panic, In concert, our lives have swirled, My music box, her tiny world. |
| Before the arctic chimes of winter, beauty as precious as the last breath. A sweeping scent of cinnamon hot cider in a gentle farmer’s hands toasting the elastic clouds. Pumpkins at a log-cabin door, a turkey, kitchens and tables set to a horn of plenty, witches, scarecrows, and ghosts, designs of autumn sketched in an ominous way. When lightning dances a jig along the edges of clouds, dark corners hoard haunting fiction, collecting parched-leaf tales, as we rake our drying thoughts into piles of warnings. Through the hills, rust colors awaken in yellow, orange, and red, while little-girl-cheeks echo the earthy glow. A maze of dried shrubs drenched clean in the sudden rain. With nervous speed and warnings of tears, our success or failure, readying for the disappearing act, re-organizes the dance. Through excess, we celebrate our place at this time, where destiny deems we should be in the autumn of our years. |
| Buried in the dust of sighs, A jeweled raindrop like a tear, One loose speck of iridescent sand. Contrary thoughts stirring, A fidgety brook weeps over pebbles, One timid woman cries in the movies in the dark. At the sharpened faces of rocks, A foaming river rages walled-off by boulders, When stinging things are caged inside we cannot utter. The knightly sea motionless, Humbled at the feet of the dragon mountain, While we writhe, heartbroken, by the so-called mighty. Cool blue oceans mirrored in cosmos, As drunk earth spins around in fake sophistication, God bends down to lift the speck of sand and wipes our tears. |
| Punish us not! How can you dream of this place without pony-tailed girls with ruby rings and white lace, farmers furrowing, builders laying the base, men and women shaking hands in friendship’s grace? Spare us these: the doomsday horrors of crumbling death, mad-eyed nightmares, ominous threats, hopeless bets, under bridges tortuous trolls with iron grips, those warring weapons, missiles, bombs, rockets. Show us how arms can only be used for embrace. As a wise wizard grants tongues to parakeets, dreams can nudge voice to sing, pens to write, joy to return to men of infinite feats. Make us grasp the beauty of clouds, golden sunbeams, moonlight on the brook, willows weeping with ease, gentle waves styling their love lines in the sand, ants, elephants, fall flowers, spring leaves, tall trees. Give us time, till we learn to stay where we belong, as we chase away the darkness from our eyes, so we can march forward healed and return to our birthright, Your eternity’s paradise. |
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